Mike walked out of prison in the spring of ’89. He was twenty-three, with a piercing gaze and a reputation that preceded him. He didn’t go back to his parents’ house. His mother had passed away while he was inside, his sister had moved to Chicago, and his father was gone. Mike rented a small apartment and started working for a local syndicate. He handled money laundering, moved stolen cars, and provided “security” for underground casinos.
The money was good, and the ’90s were a wild time. The old world was changing, and Mike knew how to navigate the chaos. He was reliable. He took his cut, never got greedy, and never snitched. By ’91, he was overseeing a major operation moving luxury cars across state lines. The risks were high, but the payoffs were in the hundreds of thousands. He bought a nice place in a quiet suburb, but he lived alone. He had a rule: no wife, no kids. A man in his business couldn’t afford to have a heart that could be held for ransom.
In ’92, Mike was officially “made” within the organization. He was now a respected captain, a man people came to for mediation and advice. He was fair, but he was firm. In ’93, he met Jim Miller. They met at a private club where the local heavyweights gathered. Jim was thirty-five, a former Marine with a scar over his eye and a no-nonsense attitude. Mike liked him instantly.
They became partners on several big scores. But Jim had a secret that went against the code: he had a family. A wife named Sarah and a baby girl named Allison. Usually, the organization frowned on that kind of vulnerability, but Jim was so good at his job and so loyal that they looked the other way. Jim kept his work and home lives completely separate. Mike and Jim became more than partners; they became brothers.
Mike started visiting Jim’s house. It was a modest home in a quiet neighborhood. Sarah would make dinner, and little Allison would crawl around the rug. Mike would sit there, drinking coffee, watching them. He felt a strange ache—not envy, but a quiet grief for a life he had chosen not to have. He was a man of the shadows, destined for loneliness and prison cells. But seeing Jim’s family made him realize there was another way to live.
From ’94 to ’96, they were on top of the world. But the landscape was shifting. New, younger crews were moving in—guys who didn’t care about the old rules. In ’97, a dispute broke out with a crew from Philadelphia over a massive shipment of electronics. The Philly guys claimed Mike’s crew had encroached on their territory. Mike tried to settle it peacefully at a meeting in a neutral diner, but the Philly boss, a guy named “The Vulture,” wouldn’t budge.
A week later, two of Mike’s warehouses were torched. Then one of their drivers was killed. Jim wanted to hit back hard, and Mike agreed. They burned down a Philly-owned dealership and sent a message. The war was on. By November ’97, both sides were bleeding money and men. A final sit-down was arranged at a deserted hunting lodge halfway between the two cities. Mike and Jim went alone. The Vulture and his top enforcer were supposed to be the only ones there.
